The Year of Bountiful Snow

 

So far, my Year of Bountiful Possibilities has turned into a year of Bountiful Snow. After an open early winter and a green Christmas, we’ve gotten enough snow in the greater Boston area to bury Rob Gronkowski (we’ve had more snow since February 10, when this piece was written). Most of my readers, regardless of how they feel about the New England Patriots, will agree that hiding someone who looks like Gronk is a damn shame and snow deep enough to hide a 6’6″ man, whether he’s handsome and buff or not, is excessive amounts of the white stuff.* But today it actually got above freezing, I heard the steady drip-drip-drip of melting icicles, and over along the south wall of the house, there’s a tiny patch right next to the house where some terribly bedraggled daffodil leaves are poking up. (Tough little guys. Not only are they sprouting despite snow, they’re pushing aside the cardboard mulch we laid down in that bed. We hadn’t wanted to sacrifice the spring bulbs, but the bed was so weed-ridden it seemed easiest to smother and then replant.) While not even the posts from the garden fence are visible, today’s thaw compressed the snow enough I can see the shape of the raised beds. They’re still buried, but I see they’re out there, and that’s reassuring.

I live with Seasonal Affective Disorder, but most years, I deal with it by spending as much time as possible outdoors. Since mid-January, when there hasn’t been an active snowstorm in progress, it seems like the wind chills have been well below zero, making even a walk around the block a scary prospect. And with the snow as deep as it is, hiking is iffy. I’ve gone snowshoeing once and had a blast, but since I have to rent the snowshoes in another town, and the store isn’t particularly near any of my favorite parks, it’s not something I can easily run out and do for an hour before or after the day job. I know: excuses, excuses! I’m going out this weekend, though: snowshoes on Sunday and maybe a short walk in the woods on Saturday. I wouldn’t call it a hike, but the main path around the pond at the state park near my house should be pretty tromped down by now. And I’ll feel much better.

January and February haven’t all been holing up in the house cursing the snow. We attended a grand party held by our SCA (Society for Creative Anachronism) household–good food, good company and even a tiny bit of snowshoeing thanks to a friend who’d brought hers along. I read from Out of Control at the Fetish Fair Fleamarket in Providence and got to spend some time with other erotica/erotic romance writers, although we ended up leaving early due to, you guessed, snow. Last weekend we attended the Rhode Island Flower Show and saw green! growing! things! and actual flowers still attached to plants. It was smaller than we expected, possibly because the winter has been so dreadful even greenhouses found themselves challenged. But it was still a good time, topped off with a fondue dinner.

“Tiny house” style gazebo and spring flowers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And of course, I’ve been writing, although I have to admit not as much as I would have been were I not in the grip of Seasonal Affective Disorder and wanting, deep down, to spend a lot of time eating sweets and sleeping. I actually got a novella and my samples for the NECRWA Conference pitch session in before the deadline, and I’m discovering that my work in progress, tentatively called Overdrive, doesn’t actually stink like carrion. I had to sit on the first draft for almost a month before I dared revisit it, but I’m pleased to say it’s good. Rough, as is the nature of first drafts, but good.

You know, I think I may survive this winter after all.

* If you don’t live in snow country, you might think I have this much snow stacked in my yard. I don’t. It compresses under its own weight, and some melts or sublimates away, so it’s more like 3.5-4 feet  at this point. But that’s still a lot, and the drift at the end of the driveway is about 8 feet tall.

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